


ye dinna want to get married looking like a melted cunnel

by gotham_ruaidh



Series: Gotham Writes for Imagine Claire & Jamie [44]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:50:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotham_ruaidh/pseuds/gotham_ruaidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night before the wedding Claire gets drunk which gets her an escort up to her room, she only recounts the voices and how they sounded not what was said. The second one was reassuring (Jamie?) I really feel this could have been developed more</p>
            </blockquote>





	ye dinna want to get married looking like a melted cunnel

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at [Imagine Claire & Jamie](http://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/143846270901/night-before-the-wedding-claire-gets-drunk-which) on tumblr

The fiery oblivion of another drink.

Eyes watering against the burn - mind numb to the sticky table, filthy floorboards, and foul stench of the stinking men roaring in a strange tongue around her.

The room swirled - her heart raced.

She was dreaming - she had to be dreaming. She had been knocked flat by a mortar shell, and was on morphine, and this was the strange dreamworld her mind had conjured up.

18th-century Scotland - understandable, as it was Frank’s area of interest. Scotland - the Highlands - well, that was from their honeymoon. Blood and wounds and dirty men - she was surrounded by that every day.

And Jamie - well, there *had* been Scotsmen among the ranks, the low, musical rumble of their burrs so different from the clipped English and flowing French in the canteen and living quarters.

She missed Frank - that’s all there was to it. They had only seen each other so rarely since the War began - it was simple deprivation. She longed to lie with a man, to live as Frank’s wife - to turn to him in the night, and love him, and know that he would turn to her with the same need.

But why did her mind’s eye show her a strong, broad chest - an honest back webbed with scars - a wide, sweet mouth - and eyes so blue and intense that they stared right through her?

“Another round, mistress?”

She felt, more than saw, the barkeep approach her spot in the corner of the taproom, one boot squeaking on the uneven floorboards.

“Why the hell not?” She pushed her empty glass across the table. “What have I to lose?”

And then the tumbler was full again - and then the contents were sliding down her throat.

Dreaming - she was definitely dreaming. But where was she, really? Was she being taken proper care of? Those bloody trainee French nurses never quite cleaned their hands properly, and would just flirt with the doctors all the time -

She threw back her head and downed the remainder of the tumbler. Damn, it must have been a long time since she’d had good alcohol - this whisky was so tasty…

And then the chair, all by itself, tipped over - and she spilled to the floor in a heap of skirts and curses.

And then out of nowhere the strong arms she’d dreamed about were around her, holding her, keeping her safe. Gently hoisting her against that strong chest, cradling her as the room spun.

She was floating - how else to explain her weightless glide up the stairs? Damn, this morphine was good. Deadening the pain from whatever injury had been inflicted - whatever loss she had suffered - much better than any reality.

Then she was nestled against a lumpy pillow, those same strong, capable, gentle hands wrapping a scratchy blanket around her shoulders. The mattress dipped as the man settled beside her, securing her in the center of the bed so that she couldn’t fall off the edge. Brushing back her hair so softly, a whisper against her fevered skin.

“More,” she rasped.

“There’s no more for ye tonight, lass.”

That voice - where had she heard it before?

“Why not?”

A warm hand rested against her forehead - was she awake now? Why was the doctor checking her temperature without using a thermometer?

“It’s dangerous for ye downstairs. Ye must - take better care.”

“I’m a nurse - I can take bloody good care of myself, thank you very much.” She rolled her shoulders, struggling to get free.

Was she in the isolation tent? Why were her arms and legs strapped down?

“She’s delirious, lad. She must ha’  downed half that bottle - Dougal willna like that expense, too - ”

“I dinna give a fig for Dougal, right now. Hold still, Sassenach.”

Freedom - the cool air of the room kissed the back of Claire’s hands, swimming in the bedsheets.

“Matron? What’s going on? Have I been relieved of my duties?”

Solid palms pushed her shoulders back to the bed. “Be still.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong - why am I here? What did I do?”

“Ye didna do anything wrong, Claire. Yer brain is just a bit confused right now, is all. It will all be better in the morning.”

She scrubbed her face with her now-cold hands, then froze. “Why am I wearing my wedding ring?”

“Ye never take it off, Claire.”

“I can’t be wearing my wedding ring if I’m assisting in a surgery! I could lose it!”

She held her hand straight out, as far as her arm could reach, eyes crossing as she focused on the tiny circle of gold.

“I can’t lose this! I can’t lose Frank!”

“Ye won’t lose him, Claire. Ye can never lose him. I’ll see to it.”

“Why is Frank not here?”

“She told ye he was deid, aye? Do ye think she’s…seeing him right now?”

“Frank is gone. I’m alone. All alone.”

Her face crumpled in confusion and grief. Her head turned on the pillow, nose buried in her own tangled curls.

“I’m all alone.”

The mattress rustled as someone stretched out next to her and tilted up her chin. Wordlessly, instinctively, she melted into him. The man whose voice, whose chest, whose arms, whose presence calmed and soothed her. Grounded her. Was more real to her than anyone - anything - had ever been.

“Ye’re no’ alone, Claire.”

She sniffed. “I’m not a spy.”

He sighed. “I believe ye. I do.”

“I do,” she echoed. “I had to say that to Frank, at the registry office. I do.”

She felt the man swallow.

“And now I have to say it to someone else. I don’t want to.”

The man wound an arm around her back, pulling her tighter against him.

“I said it to Frank, and I meant it, I think. And I can’t say the same words to another man, even though he has a nice smile and he’s my only friend in this bloody, godforsaken century.”

“Hush. It will all be better in the morning, lass.”

“Will it?”

Her voice was clear - and Jamie’s heart raced, fearing a moment of terrifying lucidity -

But then she went boneless, her breaths slowed - and she fell deeply asleep.

And Jamie Fraser held his future wife - heart so full of love, throat so full of emotion, brain so full of fear. Mourning her losses, struggling to understand her terrors, praying that whatever he could offer her, it would be what she deserved.

“Will ye stay, lad?”

Jamie sighed, deeply inhaling the curls at the crown of Claire’s head. “No. I canna stay.”

“She’d never know - she’ll sleep straight through until morning.”

“No - but _I’d_ know. And that’s more than enough, aye?”

So he untangled himself from her - draped the blanket over her shoulders - kissed her forehead - and quietly stepped outside, settling himself for another night sleeping on the landing.

When she woke in the morning - Murtagh shaking her awake, attended to by the innkeeper’s wife - she was convinced it had all been a dream. A terrifying dream, where she was stuck in a place where only one person - one beautiful, patient, faceless man could help her.

It wasn’t until she settled into sleep for the final time on her wedding night - wrapped in Jamie’s plaid, tangled in his arms, heart so full of so many emotions that she dared not make real by speaking - that she realized who that man was.


End file.
